


Sick Day

by cyphernaut



Series: Sick Day Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Discipline, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically a complete indulgence of ageplay fic.  No sex, just comfort, stroppy!Sherlock and kind!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has not yet been edited, so I apologise for any errors. Please feel free to let me know or give general concrit with a kind tone. Thanks!

It was getting to the point that John noticed it before Sherlock. A slight hitch in his breath when John come into view, an uncharacteristic openness in movement, and most of all, at this time of evening at least, a droop of his eyelids and occasional yawn.

“Time for bed, love.”

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide, caught in a head space he hadn't even noticed he'd slipped into. “I'm in the middle of an experiment.”

“Is it something that can hold until the morning, or will we need to clear it away for the night and start again tomorrow?”

The implied threat should have been enough to convince him to listen, but Sherlock rejected the choice, turning back to his table full of acids and pig organs, pointedly ignoring John's question. John didn't know whether Sherlock was fighting the head space or John himself, but he hadn't used his safeword, so John felt free to push him further into the dynamic, invoking the authority Sherlock had granted him with with a mildly stern, “Sherlock, look at me.”

“I'm not tired.” The dark circles under his eyes betrayed him. Adult Sherlock could probably use the sleep just as much as his little boy.

“Would you like me to read you a story tonight?” he asked, carefully side-stepping the brewing argument.

“Yes.”

“Then get ready for bed. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Casting a final longing glance at the carnage on the kitchen table, Sherlock hurried off, leaving John to tidy up the mess and ensure that nothing was too diseased to leave in the flat overnight.

By the time he'd finished the washing up, Sherlock was waiting in bed with a stack of books, most of which were far too thick and arcane for bedtime reading. John smiled and slid the three children's books out of the stack. Sherlock's eyes darted between John and the stack of books, undoubtedly calculating how much John would tolerate before pronouncing him too naughty and argumentative for a bedtime story.

“Not tonight, love,” he said, opening the first book and settling down next to Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock leaned into him to get a clear view of the pictures, and John began to read.

He had made it through almost a third of the book, ignoring Sherlock's derisive snorts, when Sherlock finally snapped, “John, this is absurd.”

John looked down with raised eyebrows. “I take it you're unhappy with the story.”

“Surely you can't believe what you're reading. Even a simpleton can see that the rabbit is lying. Look at his shoes.”

Handing the book over, John carded his hand through Sherlock's hair. “Would you like to tell me what actually happened?”

Sherlock turned back to the first page, and narrated the pictures, ignoring the original plot line in favour of a tale of intrigue and complexity that was far more entertaining. As he closed the book, Sherlock looked up to John for approval.

“Excellent observations,” John said, tucking Sherlock snugly under the blankets. “Far superior to the original.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock managed to look smug while yawning widely. “I'll just check on my experiment, and-”

“You'll just go to sleep,” John corrected him. “And you'll not get out of bed until morning.”

Sherlock glowered through the next yawn. “But what if I wake up? If I'm not sleeping anyway, what's the purpose-”

“I'm not going to philosophise with you, Sherlock. You know when you're being naughty.” When Sherlock didn't respond, John dropped a short kiss on his forehead, which Sherlock angrily scrubbed at with the back of his hand.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

* * *

When John woke, he woke completely, a military habit he'd not yet left behind. He grabbed his mobile and checked the time. It was half three, which meant the rustling in the flat could only be one thing. He pulled on his dressing gown, slippers, and the sternest expression that he could manage, then padded downstairs.

Sherlock didn't respond to his presence, even when John walked right up to his side. It had been weeks since Sherlock had last been so blatantly disobedient, and John had thought that they'd put the behaviour completely behind them.

“Go back to bed, Sherlock.”

The warning tone had little effect. Sherlock continued fiddling with the beakers and avoiding John's gaze. “Did you know that da Vinci slept less than two hours every day?”

“I don't care about da Vinci, Sherlock. I care about you. Stop what you're doing, right now.”

Sherlock's fingers slackened and he pulled away from the table, staring mutely at the floor. John steered him to the sofa and sat him down. “Clearly this experiment is too tempting, so I'm going to clear it away. You can start again in the morning.”

“But it's important, John!” Sherlock seemed outraged, but stayed where John had put him as John searched the cupboards for something to neutralise the acids on the table.

“Not as important as your health.” 

“You're a philistine, John!” Sherlock snapped as John began to carefully package up the hazardous materials and put everything in bins for later disposal. “You have no appreciation for science! If it were up to men like you, we would all still be living in the Dark Ages.”

John ignored the tirade, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't move from the sofa, his compliance assured by a long morning of being walked back to the naughty step almost twenty times before finally staying for the prescribed five minutes. It had been several months ago, and since then he'd not tested John's resolve in putting him right back where he was supposed to be, even if he often delayed his release by refusing to apologise for his behaviour. 

Sherlock carried on for a while, but was winding down as John wiped down the table and washed his hands of the mess. By the time John walked back to the sofa, Sherlock was silently glowering at the floor. John knew he didn't cut an imposing figure, standing with his hands in the pockets of a worn dressing gown, but Sherlock still seemed to shrink as John pinned him with a stern look.

“I was going to ask whether you'd like to spend the rest of the night in my room, but I don't think I want to invite a stroppy little boy who's going to insult me all night. Do you think you can behave if you sleep in my bed?”

Despite the enticing offer, Sherlock remained silent, pride and resentment warring with his desire for reconciliation, and knowing that John would require an apology before they could move on. John decided to make it easier for him, leaning down to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. As soon as they made contact, John pulled back, startled.

“Sherlock, you have a fever. I think you're ill.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You are, and it explains why you're in such a mood.”

“I'm in a mood because you're horrible and you destroyed my experiment!” Sherlock spat out.

John frowned. “Sherlock!” he admonished.

That was all it took for Sherlock to burst into tears, and John reacted without thinking, leaning down and pulling his crying boy in for a hug. 

“Stop it, you're horrible,” Sherlock protested, even as he buried his face into John's neck. John shushed him and rubbed small circles in his back. When he'd calmed down a bit, John leaned back to wipe away Sherlock's tears with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“Come on then, up you get,” John said, and Sherlock docilely allowed himself to be led up and away from the sofa. He followed close to John in a daze until they approached the staircase, where he twisted away.

“No, I don't want to sit on the naughty step,” he whinged softly.

“It's okay, love. We're going to my bedroom. Don't you want to sleep in my bed tonight?”

Sherlock nodded and practically fell back into John's arms. They walked together to John's bed, where John sat Sherlock down and checked him over quickly.

“I'm going to give you something for the fever,” John told him, and Sherlock nodded miserably.

Quickly grabbing tablets, a glass of water, and a wet flannel, John came back to see Sherlock curled up on the bed. He pressed the tablets and water into Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock obediently swallowed them down before lying back down. John spent a few moments wiping down Sherlock's face before pulling the blankets over him and crawling into bed beside him.

Sherlock rarely slid this young, and while John didn't like to see him ill, it was gratifying to have him so open to John's care. John curled his arm protectively around Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock burrowed into him. They drifted off together, putting the night behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be the second "half" of the story, told from Sherlock's POV, but it got away from me, and there will be a third chapter. I'm not sure what to do about the POV of the third chapter, since I'd planned it to be Sherlock but now it's unbalanced. I guess we will see.

A burning in Sherlock's throat woke him before he was ready. He turned about in bed noisily, hoping to rouse John, and when that didn't work he simply smacked the man's arm, hard. John woke with a start.

“Oi! Sherlock!”

Sherlock scrambled back. “You can't punish me. I'm ill!”

Johns mouth settled into a grim line, and Sherlock started to doubt the conclusion he'd come to last night after he'd been allowed to be so mouthy and rude.

“Illness is not an excuse to smack people about. Do it again, and you'll be back in your room.”

Sherlock threw himself back on the bed and mentally railed against the injustice of it all. John was his best friend, as well as a doctor, and yet the man was callously ignoring Sherlock in his time of need. Peeking over, he saw that John had already closed his eyes and was lying there, placidly oblivious to Sherlock's suffering. Sherlock drummed his feet on the bed, distracting himself from the pain in his throat.

John reached over and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, shushing him softly. “You need to rest.”

Turning away, Sherlock buried himself under the duvet. John tried to cuddle up against him, but Sherlock shoved him back. When John failed to make a second attempt, Sherlock lay there miserably and started to cry. He was careful not to make a sound; he still had his pride, after all.

Finally, when he couldn't bear it any more, Sherlock turned back and whispered, “John.” 

“Go back to sleep, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrunk back and wiped at the tears that now threatened to overwhelm him. John hadn't even opened his eyes, didn't even care to know that Sherlock needed him. There was only one way for Sherlock to secure John's attention now, so he pushed himself down as young as he could, tentatively reached out his hand and laid it on John's arm.

“Daddy,” he said plaintively.

John's eyes flew open, and Sherlock tried to look as pathetic as possible. It must have worked, because John immediately propped himself up on his elbows to hover protectively over Sherlock's prone form.

“Sherlock, what's wrong?” he asked, wiping at the tears on Sherlock's cheeks.

“My throat hurts.”

Sherlock buried his face in John's tee-shirt, and John held him close and kissed the top of his head. “Let's take a look at you then, hmm?”

Sherlock nodded, and John pulled back to kiss him again, this time on the forehead, before pushing himself out of bed. Sitting up, Sherlock watched John rummage through his bag before coming back with a penlight and arranging Sherlock on the side of the bed, legs dangling down as he looked up into John's concerned face.

With John paying such close attention to him, Sherlock already felt marginally better. He was gratified, too, by John's slight wince as he shone the light on the back of Sherlock's throat, and he waited impatiently as John felt over his neck and listened to his breathing.

“Your temperature's down, but your nose is running-,” John started, framing Sherlock's face with his hands.

“No, it isn't!” Sherlock corrected, surprised by John's blindness to the situation. “My throat hurts. I thought you'd make it better, not just look at it. You're supposed to be a doctor.”

A slight lift of John's eyebrows was the only indication that the man had registered the implied insult. “Your nose is running down the back of your throat,” he continued, “and it's causing irritation. I'll give you something for the pain and the excess mucus after breakfast, but in the meantime I want you to take a long, hot shower to clear out your head.”

The idea of a long, hot shower sounded terrible. Sherlock didn't want to stand up, he didn't want to face the tedium of fiddling with the shower tap, and he certainly didn't want John to leave him to deal with his misery on his own. “No, it hurts,” he whinged.

“I know.” John pulled Sherlock in, and Sherlock rested his forehead limply against John's chest as John massaged the back of his neck. “You should tell me when you're in pain.”

“I did tell you,” Sherlock reminded him, voice muffled by the soft cotton of John's shirt.

“You should tell me before it gets this bad,” he clarified, and Sherlock pressed further into him, hiding himself from the mild reprimand. “And before smacking me in the arm. I'm still hoping for an apology for that, by the way.”

When Sherlock didn't respond, John pushed him back to arm's distance, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's shoulders. He stared pointedly as Sherlock avoided his gaze and tried to determine how likely he was to be put on the naughty step so late after his misbehaviour. Unlikely, according to the information gleaned from the parenting blogs he'd found in John's web cache, especially considering the extra latitude John had been giving him during his illness. Still, there was no indication that John would back down, and though he was nowhere close to being Sherlock's intellectual equal, they were more than matched in a battle of wills. Sherlock would undoubtedly be subjected to this same stare in this same spot on this same bed with this same sore throat until he apologised or John was forced to leave for work. The pain he could endure, but the monotony would be unbearable. 

Immediate capitulation was unnecessary, however, not when there were other avenues open to him. Sherlock forced a few tears and peered up at John through wet eyelashes.

“Daddy, it hurts.”

John said nothing. The silence hung between them, heavier and heavier as Sherlock's world seemed to contract around him.

“Sorry,” he finally mumbled. It wasn't a proper apology, barely comprehensible and delivered directly to the floor, but John hugged him anyway.

“That's my good boy,” he murmured, and Sherlock buried his nose into John's collar. John never smelled as much of himself as when he'd just woken up, and Sherlock let it envelop him.

“It really does hurt,” he sighed.

“I know, love. Let's get you to the shower, then.”

* * *

The shower helped more than Sherlock had expected, clearing out his sinuses and even alleviating the pain in his throat somewhat. It also hadn't hurt that John had run the shower for him, getting the temperature perfect and ensuring Sherlock had everything he needed before leaving to make breakfast. By the time Sherlock emerged, the sofa had been converted into a Sherlock-sized nest of blankets and pillows, and tea and toast were waiting for him on the coffee table. He sunk into the blankets and called out for John, who came down the stairs fully dressed.

“Eat your breakfast, Sherlock,” John ordered as he walked back into the kitchen to complete some mundane task that was apparently more important to him than Sherlock's well being.

“You said you'd give me medicine.”

“Not on an empty stomach,” John called back. “Tuck in, and I'll get the tablets.”

Sherlock glowered at the kitchen doorway, but took a bite of the toast, which turned out not quite as horrible as he had expected. The tea was weak, with honey and lemon, but it did soothe his throat as it went down. He finished both and called again for John, feeling small and pliant in the soft refuge constructed particularly for him.

As soon as he saw John in the doorway, Sherlock reached for him, and John came quickly, sitting down on the edge of the sofa next to Sherlock and dropping impossibly large tablets on the coffee table.

“No, Daddy, I don't want tablets.”

John blinked in surprise, then studied Sherlock's face for a moment before brushing the curls back from his forehead. “So little again?” he asked. “You're sliding all over today.”

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, so he hugged his daddy's waist and gave him a kiss on the shoulder, the one that still hurt from the war.

“All right, little one. I'll crush these up into some honey for you.”

Sherlock smiled and hugged his knees to his chest while he waited for his daddy to come back. When he did, he had two spoons full of honey. They tasted of medicine, but Sherlock ate them all up while his daddy rubbed his back and told him what a great patient he was. Then they got to cuddle on the sofa while his daddy hummed all sorts of songs to him. He dozed off with his daddy's arms around his chest and voice in his ears.

* * *

“Sherlock, love, wake up.”

Sherlock came to, dazed and disoriented. The medicine had addled his thoughts, and he looked up at John blearily. “Go away.”

John smirked. “Incidentally, that's exactly why I woke you. I have to leave for work soon, and I wanted to check that you'd aged back up before I left.”

Clarity came instantly, clarity and alarm. “No.”

“You're going to have to be more specific, Sherlock.”

“No, you can't leave. I need you here.” Having proclaimed the matter settled, Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back to rest.

“Unfortunately, there are others at the clinic who would also like to make use of my services as a doctor, and I'm scheduled to be there in less than an hour.”

Sherlock sat back up and glared furiously. “London has an abundance of doctors, most of whom are, I'm sure, as capable or even more so than you-”

“Thank you,” John snapped, rolling his eyes and turning away. “That's just-”

“I have only one friend, and you're staying here.”

John looked back to him, markedly more sympathetic. “Sherlock, it's just a few hours. I'll pick up a takeaway on the way back. What would you like? Anything.”

“I'd like you to stay here.”

John stared down at him, unimpressed. “I'm very sorry to hear that, because I'm leaving in ten minutes. You have five minutes to demonstrate to me that you can stay here on your own.”

“Or what?”

Throwing up his hands, John stared into the distance, searching for an answer with the prosaic intellectual tools at his disposal. “I don't know, Sherlock! Just please do it because I need to go to work.”

So John wouldn't leave when Sherlock still needed him. Checkmate.

“No,” Sherlock said, and watched smugly as John took a deep breath to compose himself and squatted down next to Sherlock's face.

“Sherlock, Daddy really needs to-”

“No!” Sherlock shouted in his face, and John jumped back up in exasperation.

“So help me, Sherlock, if you strop right now to force me to stay, I will go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson to look after you.”

Sherlock froze, and his world froze with him. He searched John's face, his body, for any sign that this was a bluff. Mrs. Hudson didn't know about them, not unless her powers of observation were far keener than Sherlock gave her credit for, and John and he had never talked of letting her in on their secret. John wouldn't tell her outright; he had too much of a pedestrian aversion to awkward conversations. No, he would invite her up casually and allow her to observe for herself. Sherlock would be forced between letting her see him in this state or reverting back to his adult headspace. Either way, John would be free to leave.

“You can safeword out, but you have to safeword _out_.” John, who was pointing at him with resolution and authority, loomed larger and more forceful than Sherlock had ever remembered him. “You're trying to manipulate me into doing something I'm unwilling to do, and that's not on.”

Never before had the limits of Sherlock's methodology been as stark. Observation and deduction allowed one to perceive reality correctly, but not to change it. John was not bluffing, and as relatively simple as his thought processes were, his strategy was even simpler, and devastatingly effective.

“Three minutes,” John said, and Sherlock began to cry.

To Sherlock's surprise, John sat down beside him and stroked his back, murmuring assurances and encouragement as Sherlock struggled to compose himself.

“Two minutes, love.”

Sherlock took three deep, calming breaths and wiped the tears from his face. “I don't want you to leave,” he said sullenly.

“I know, but I have to. So, you can either stay this little, and I can ask Mrs. Hudson to look after you, or you can age up just a bit, stay here on your own, and if you behave yourself, I'll get us a takeaway.”

“What if I don't behave myself? Will you still bring a takeaway?”

“Yes,” John admitted, and Sherlock stifled a knowing smirk. “But that doesn't mean you'll get away with it. You've been outrageously naughty today and my patience is frayed.”

The bargain was more than fair, and Sherlock nodded his agreement. “I can look after myself.”

“Brilliant.” John dropped a quick kiss on the top of Sherlock's head and stood up. “Text me if you need me.”

“John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I just told you I can look after myself.”

“Ah, insolent teenager, definitely able to stay home alone. Excellent age range,” John teased. “Answer my texts or you're grounded.”

“Shut up, John. You'll be late.”

Laughing at Sherlock's irritation, John stooped down to place one last revoltingly wet kiss on his cheek and rushed out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's happening! I keep trying to go back to John's POV and I can't. It's also gotten out of control and is now 4 chapters. Sorry! I don't even know anymore! I should be able to do the last update this weekend.

Sherlock tapped his mobile against his knee. John had asked him to answer his texts and then proceeded to send Sherlock precisely none over the past two hours. Sherlock's thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he cast the phone across the room. It skidded to a halt underneath the armchair and immediately sounded a text alert. Clambering across the coffee table, Sherlock knocked his plate to the floor as he raced after the only potential distraction he'd had all day from the monotony of his invalidism.

Molly had procured the feet he'd requested. Of course they would become available just as he was unable to leave the flat. Not only was he bored, but he now also had a irritating reminder of all the interesting things he could be doing were he not ill. He glared at the mobile and willed it to sound again.

Finally, when he couldn't bear it any longer, he started typing.

_I'm bored._

The answer came quickly. _You're clever. Think of something to entertain yourself._

_I've thought of 24, but you've forbidden all of them._

He waited for John's response, and when none came, he intensified his efforts. _Never mind. I've thought of something. You're still keeping your gun in the back of the cupboard, aren't you?_

_I cannot play this game with you now. I'm working. Should I call Mrs. Hudson to come up?_

Sherlock glared at the phone, irrationally imagining it transmitting his ire to John's office. _You're horrible. I'm ill and my mind is rotting and you have no compassion._

_Tidy the flat. That should keep you occupied for a while._

Sherlock tossed the phone aside, then shoved a pile of documents to the floor for good measure. Sometimes John's blindness astounded him. Sherlock needed something that would occupy his mind, not his hands. How could an activity even more boring than doing absolutely nothing possibly entertain him? He briefly analysed the scatter pattern of the papers on the floor, filing it away for later use. He shoved another pile down for comparison before deeming the experiment a waste of his time.

The only object in the room that held any modicum of mystery was John's laptop, which John had clearly been using during Sherlock's short nap. It was also the only object in the room that John had declared off-limits in his absence. Sherlock stood over it, considering the secrets it might hold. John hadn't specified any particular consequences for using the laptop, and in all likelihood would merely start taking the laptop with him to work rather than punish Sherlock for succumbing to temptation. 

It took only fifty-three seconds to bypass the security settings.

The unadulterated hideousness of John's desktop image startled him: an ill-composed photo from a day trip to Paris that John had taken with the latest in his series of dull and inadequate girlfriends. Sherlock clicked over to the computer's settings and switched the image out with one of the periodic table. John could certainly use the revision, if his recent blunders in determining the chemical composition of paint residue were any indication, and if anything else, the table was more aesthetically balanced than the skewed depiction of a blurry Parisian skyline. He improved a few more of the settings while he was in the window before scanning John's email to check whether he'd said anything interesting about Sherlock lately.

He had already moved on to see whether any of the pages in John's recent browser history were relevant to him when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He briefly entertained the notion that John had, in fact, asked Mrs. Hudson to check on him, but he dismissed it immediately. From the sound of her gait, Mrs. Hudson was carrying a parcel. He quickly shut down the laptop and threw himself into the armchair, attempting to look as adult as possible as Mrs. Hudson called inside and swung open the door.

“Something came for you, Sherlock. You'd better take it now after the last one seeped into my floorboards.” Her eyes took in the state of the room, and she shook her head. “Look at this mess!”

“I'm ill!” Sherlock defended himself as he rose to take the parcel from Mrs. Hudson's hand. It was too light to contain any liquid, unlikely to seep into anything. He dropped it onto the table before flinging himself back into the chair, giving Mrs. Hudson a short reproving look for disturbing him in his weakened state.

“It's no wonder, the way you carry on,” Mrs. Hudson scolded him as she picked up the plate and empty tea mug and carried them back to the kitchen. Sherlock frowned at her lack of sympathy, but didn't complain as he heard the tea kettle start up again.

“I'll take it weak, with honey and lemon,” he called out, then felt himself shrink as Mrs. Hudson appeared in the kitchen doorway with a disapproving stare. “Please,” he added. “John said so, and he's a doctor.”

Appeased, Mrs. Hudson began to straighten the papers strewn about the sitting room. “You're lucky to have a doctor here, with the way you take care of yourself.”

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, reflexively ageing down under Mrs. Hudson's gentle chiding. “I got along well enough without him.”

Mrs. Hudson made a non-committal noise and returned to the kitchen. Sherlock wondered whether John would be upset at Sherlock's willingness to interact with Mrs. Hudson without all of the precautions John had been so adamant about. Sherlock had suffered through several excruciatingly mundane conversations about safewords and limits before John had consented to take on the role that they'd both agreed upon. Mrs. Hudson had stumbled into hers with no preparation whatsoever.

Jerking upright as the as the implications of his thought process became clear to him, Sherlock let out an indignant huff. He'd had _no_ such conversations with Mrs. Hudson, and she was _already_ treating him as a child. He reviewed his prior interactions with her, searching for any sign that her behaviour was out of character, and grew outraged as he found none.

“I'm not a child!” he declared as Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea.

“Of course not, dear,” she answered, pressing the mug into his hands. “Now drink this and go lie down for a while. You need your rest.”

Sherlock bristled at her concern. “John told me to stay propped up. He made a bed for me.”

Mrs. Hudson followed Sherlock's gaze to the sofa and smiled softly. “Well, then, listen to your doctor. I'm going downstairs to make you a nice soup.”

Sherlock watched her over his mug as she left the flat, clearly unconcerned by his irritation. When he finished the tea, he allowed the mug to clatter to the floor, equally unconcerned by her dislike of loud noises through her ceiling. He then stomped to the sofa and waited peevishly for his soup to arrive.

* * *

The soup had been good, and the comfort of a full stomach whilst nestled in his warm blankets had been too much to resist. Sherlock fell into a contented doze until the sharp sound of his text alert woke him. His blearily found his way to his mobile and blinked at the screen, his breath quickening into full alertness when he saw the message.

_Just finished work. What kind of takeaway do you fancy?_

Sherlock's fingers fumbled at the interface until he found the phone icon. It took a few long moments, but finally he heard his daddy's voice on the end of the line.

“Sherlock?”

“John!” Sherlock grinned into the phone.

There was a short pause, and Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for his daddy to say something. “Why-” John stopped again, and Sherlock made his way back to the sofa, holding the phone close to ensure he didn't miss anything. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock said, curling into his blankets. “But I want you to come home.”

“I'll be home soon. Why are you so little again?”

Sherlock didn't know how to answer that question, so he held the phone to his ear and waited.

“Sherlock?” John prompted him.

“Yes?”

John sighed. Sherlock wanted to see his face, but the phone only showed his name. “I'll be home as soon as I can. What do you want to eat?”

That was an easy question. “Chips!”

“Just chips?”

“And vinegar.”

“All right. I'll stop by the chippie on my way home.” Sherlock squirmed with the excitement of seeing John _and_ getting chips for dinner. “Sherlock, please try to-”

When John didn't finish the sentence, Sherlock looked at the phone in confusion. “What, Daddy?” 

John made a startled noise, something that might have been a naughty word. “I'll be back very soon. Sherlock, I'd like you to stay on the sofa until I get there, okay?” 

“Okay, Daddy. I'm on it now!” Sherlock was pleased that he was already doing what his daddy asked him to do. 

“Thank you, love. Stay there, and I'll bring back a surprise for you.” 

“I know it's ice cream.” John's hands had been cold from rummaging through the freezer when he'd brought Sherlock his tablets, but he'd not taken anything out. Of all the things that they could possibly have in their freezer but did not, ice cream was the only reasonable choice. “Do you want to know how I know?” 

“Because you're my brilliant boy, that's how,” John told him, and Sherlock laughed. “I'm at the tube station, Sherlock. I have to go. Bye, love.” 

“Bye, Daddy!” 

Sherlock waited until his mobile told him that the call had ended, and then put it back on the table. He was too excited to sit down any longer, so he stood on the sofa and marched back and forth while he waited for John. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, um, still not finished. Also, I'm sick and have no idea whether it's any good. I may edit it in a day or two. Working on the next chapter now.

When Sherlock heard the distinct sound of John entering the building downstairs, he could barely restrain himself from jumping off the sofa and flinging the door open. He knelt on the arm of the sofa closest to the entrance and strained to hear John's footsteps on the stairs. Instead, he heard an muffled conversation between Mrs. Hudson and John, unintelligible even with Sherlock leaning as far as he could without toppling over. Finally, he gave up, standing on the blankets John had left for him and stomping out his frustration as they tangled about his ankles.

He was so engrossed in disentangling himself that he didn't think to sit back down until he saw John's disapproving face in the doorway. He fell back quickly with a sharp gasp at being caught in the act, then shoved the blankets off his feet.

“Feeling better?” John asked him as he scrambled to sit up properly, and Sherlock nodded, watching John put the ice cream in the freezer and the chips on the table. Even from where he was sitting, Sherlock could see John trying to contain his laughter, so he wasn't too alarmed when John returned to stare sternly at him. “We've had several discussions about standing on the furniture, now, haven't we?”

Sherlock met John's gaze directly, not even bothering to court sympathy by looking up through his lashes. “I was tired of sitting down. You asked me not to leave the sofa, so I couldn't very well stand on the floor.”

“I've also explained to you that rule breaking is only acceptable in an emergency,” John added, gently catching Sherlock's face in his hands and looking down with more affection than reproach. “And that boredom is not an emergency.”

Sherlock knew he wasn't in trouble, not really. He buried his face in John's stomach, scrunching his nose against the itch of the jumper as John run blunt fingernails against the back of his scalp.

“I take it you stayed on the sofa, then?” John asked.

“Yes, the entire time. Even though it was horrible.”

“That's my good boy,” John said, rubbing his hand down Sherlock's back. Sherlock tried not to bask too much in the praise. “I promised you a surprise, then, didn't I?”

Sherlock looked up. “It's not a surprise, John. I know it's ice cream.”

“Ah, but do you know wh-”

“Strawberry,” Sherlock grinned at him, and John's brow furrowed.

“Well, then, maybe the surprise is-”

“I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that the surprise is that I don't get any ice cream after all. So that's not a surprise, either. The entire purpose of the 'surprise' nonsense was to entice me to comply with your unreasonable demand that I stay on the sofa. Now that I've done so, it's only fair to give me the ice cream. Moreover, taking it away because I can deduce your intentions would be punishing me for being clever.”

As soon as Sherlock paused for breath, John cut in. “All right, my little show-off, you may have your strawberry ice cream. Chips first, though, before they go cold.”

Sherlock bit down on a smirk. Of course, John had never intended to actually deny him the ice cream, but it was always pleasant to be on the winning side of a debate. John didn't seem to mind to lose, either, looking down as if Sherlock had performed a particularly clever trick.

“Go lay the table, love. I'll be right there.”

Sherlock started for the kitchen, but stopped when he saw John heading toward his computer. “Wait!” he commanded, suddenly remembering the improvements he had made to John's laptop and desperate to postpone the moment when John discovered them. “Your chips will go cold.”

“I'll be right there. I just need to check that an attachment downloaded.”

Glancing around at the tools at his disposal, Sherlock quickly developed and discarded thirteen strategies to keep John from the laptop. Seven of them involved actually destroying the computer, and another three injuring himself as a distraction. All of them promised worse consequences than the path Sherlock chose: standing helplessly as John's face clouded over upon seeing the evidence of Sherlock's misbehaviour. He took a slow, faltering step back as John turned toward him.

“Sherlock, you know that you are not allowed to use my laptop.”

Sherlock stared past John out the window. Before they'd finalized their arrangement, he'd imagined John's military experience translated into a starkly authoritarian discipline. He'd heard John's command tone, and he'd been prepared to resist it. Sherlock also had a high tolerance for pain, and he had no doubt that he could withstand anything up to and including the cane without capitulation to John's demands. Actively resisting a soft reminder of the rules, however, seemed much less noble and, if Sherlock was honest with himself, a bit idiotic. Still, it was hard not to shy away from John's light reproof.

“Sherlock, look at me, please.” Sherlock dragged his gaze back to meet John's, then dropped it down to John's collar instead. “You were being naughty on purpose, and you wanted me to know.”

Maybe it was true, but Sherlock certainly didn't want John pointing it out in such a raw and severe manner. He wanted John to look at him as he had been just minutes before, and he was angry that John had opened the laptop after Sherlock had told him not to. Shifting under John's unrelenting stare, Sherlock finally mumbled, “I'll change them back.”

“What was that?” John asked, still looking irked, as if he hadn't precipitated the situation himself by logging on over Sherlock's objections.

Glowering over having to repeat himself, Sherlock spat out, “I said I'll change them back, if you're so technologically inept that you can't do it yourself.”

“Sherlock!”

“What?” Sherlock snapped back.

John pressed his lips together, unimpressed and undaunted by Sherlock's behaviour. “That's as much of your rudeness as I'm going to tolerate today. This is your warning.”

Unwilling to press any further, Sherlock glared as John vacated the chair and pointedly motioned him to sit. Sherlock quickly ran through the settings that he had changed, reversing everything to its previous state of inadequacy, including the ghastly picture of Paris that John apparently preferred.

“There, I reverted all the settings, and our chips are probably cold.” He waved a dismissive hand at the screen.

“You changed everything back?”

“That's what I just said, John, unless you've forgotten what 'reverted' means. I wasn't aware that your grasp of the English language had deteriorated so remarkably, but I-”

“All right, that's quite enough of that,” John said, taking Sherlock by the elbow and guiding him up from his seat. At first, Sherlock thought John planned to take the seat himself, but when they continued across the room toward the doorway, he realized what was happening.

“No!” he protested. “I wasn't being mouthy. I was just clarifying what I said.” When John didn't respond, he tried a different tactic. “John, I don't feel good,” he whinged, putting his arms around John's waist and attempting to rest his head on John's shoulder. “I need you to look me over again.”

After a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, John pointed to the steps. “Sit down.”

Sherlock hesitated, gauging John's resolve before deciding against any further resistance and settling himself resentfully on the stairs. “You're supposed to be my friend.”

“You've been extremely rude to me,” John said, and Sherlock huffed, then spoke John's next sentence with him, in the most obnoxious parody of John's tone that he could muster. “I'll be back in five minutes, and I expect an apology.”

John's brows rose at the blatant mockery, but he ignored it in favour of walking back into the living room, leaving Sherlock to fulminate in isolation.

“This is ridiculous power play, John! It's not even effective. Have you even read the pages in your browser cache? You're fostering an adversarial relationship. I'll be resentful and I won't trust that you have my best interests at heart. You should be modelling problem solving skills and _compassion_!” 

Sherlock punctuated his tirade by slamming his palms onto the step beside him and listened for any response. John was walking back from the desk, and for a brief, shocking moment, Sherlock thought he may have provoked John enough to shout back, or worse.

The footsteps continued to the kitchen, and tension drained from Sherlock, leaving him relieved and disappointed at the lack of conflict. He listened to the activity in the flat, curious as to what John could be doing during Sherlock's exile. The oven clicked on, bags rustled, and Sherlock rested his head on his knees. John was heating the chips.

Sherlock felt a twinge of frustration that John could be so kind in one moment and so cruel in the next. At the sound of John's footsteps coming back toward the stairs, he curled up tightly, hiding his face in his arms. He didn't want to apologize. He just wanted John to be kind to him again.

“Sherlock.”

Tightening his hold on his knees, Sherlock ignored the prodding tone and waited for John to announce that he'd return in another five minutes. When the announcement never came, Sherlock peeked out over his arms and through his fringe, just in time to see John sit down on the step beside him. Sherlock stayed wrapped up in himself as John put an arm around him.

“We've had quite the day, we have.”

Sherlock nodded, and John pulled him in further, until Sherlock was resting his head on John's lap with John's hand stroking up and down his side. He wondered whether it was a trick to convince him to apologize. It wouldn't work.

“I'm still cross with you. This 'naughty step' nonsense is cruel.”

“If you feel that way, we can talk about it when you're big again.”

It was John's trump card, talking about things when Sherlock was big. Sherlock already knew what would happen if they did. John would remind him of his complaints, and Sherlock would brush them off, scornful of the idea that spending five minutes on a staircase was at all unpleasant, let alone unbearable. 

“I want to talk about it now,” Sherlock insisted.

“Are you trying to safeword out?”

“No.” Safewording out would mean discussing things as adults, and discussing things as adults would mean leaving John's lap and losing the feel of John's hands against him. Sherlock couldn't think of a worse idea. “I want to talk about it like this.”

“Sherlock, if you can't trust me to make these decisions for you, this can't work. That's what adults do, make decisions for children in their care.”

Sherlock picked at the fabric of John's trousers as he turned the information over in his head. “I still don't like it,” he mumbled.

John sighed. “Maybe we can call it something different, something like 'cool down time'.”

Scrunching his face against the name, Sherlock threw John a sceptical glance. “That sounds American.”

“Hmm, very true,” John mused. “What about, 'Sherlock's amazing step of unfathomable joy'?”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. “That's stupid.”

“All the better to deter you from being naughty, I think.”

Sherlock pushed himself up to look John in the eye. It sometimes amazed him the extent to which John enjoyed winding him up. Even more surprising was how much Sherlock enjoyed it as well.

“John, that's absurd. If you're going to talk rubbish, I'd rather eat.”

Unsure as to whether John would allow him off the stairs without explicit permission, Sherlock stood and made his tentative way toward the kitchen door. When he heard John follow behind, he turned back, letting John guide him the rest of the way to the table. His absolution came in the form of chips and vinegar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short this time because I'm changing to John POV next and I didn't want to do so in the middle of a chapter. Again, unbetaed, so please be kind, but feel free to point out any problems. :D

John was in a particularly indulgent mood; whether it stemmed from Sherlock's illness or guilt over leaving him in the flat all afternoon, Sherlock neither knew nor cared. He sat on the sofa and enjoyed his second bowl of ice cream.

“We should have chips and ice cream every day,” Sherlock pronounced as he scraped at the bottom of the bowl.

“As your doctor, I would advise against it,” John answered, taking the empty bowl and carrying it to the kitchen sink. “Although I do appreciate your willingness to eat tonight.”

If John had his way, Sherlock would consume a small garden every week. “I would eat as much as you wanted me to if it were chips.”

“You'd eat your way to hospital.” John's voice carried over the sound of running water, and Sherlock settled into his blankets, secure in the knowledge that he would not be asked to help with the washing up this evening.

“That's all right. You'd look after me.”

“I would,” John conceded, “but I'd rather it not come to that.” John came back with a damp tea towel and wiped undetectable traces of their meal from Sherlock's face and hands. The warm touch felt good on Sherlock's skin, but he shied away from the ministrations on principle. “I'm not the only one concerned about your health. Mrs. Hudson was not pleased when she saw the chips. In fact, she gave me quite the scolding when I came in.”

“And then you had to sit on the naughty step with me,” Sherlock grinned. The idea of John as his partner in crime delighted Sherlock. They could devise schemes to smuggle sweets and unhealthy takeaway into the flat, and invent clandestine disposal methods for their vegetables.

“Something like that,” John replied, taking a seat beside him. “She also told me that she'd brought you some soup.” 

“She came in on her own. I didn't invite her,” Sherlock explained quickly, still unsure of John's reaction to their interaction.

“I'm not cross.” John demonstrated his lack of anger with a brush of his hand on the back of Sherlock's head, and Sherlock tilted into it, then squirmed his way completely into John's arms.

“I know, you're never cross.”

John gave him a sceptical look, but it was true. As stern as John could be at times, he had never gotten truly cross with Sherlock. Even when Sherlock was at his worst, John was fairly unflappable. Today had been no different, with John's unwavering affection and consistent efforts to mitigate the effects of Sherlock's illness, despite Sherlock's admittedly atrocious behaviour. He curled further into John, tightening the blankets that had been left for him, and breathed in the lingering smell of chips.

“I'm sorry I was so horrible.” Given that this was the first apology John hadn't coerced from him, Sherlock was unsure how John would react, but possibility of the affection that often rewarded such contrition was too enticing to resist. John didn't disappoint, combing Sherlock's fringe back to plant a kiss on his forehead, then leaving his hands there while Sherlock soaked up the attention.

“Armed insurgents are horrible,” John told him. “You were just a little bit naughty.” 

The mundane characterization of Sherlock's theatrics left him vaguely indignant. He buried his face into John's shoulder and enjoyed the feel of warm breath in his hair as John spoke.

“Having dealt with armed insurgents, I assure you that a little bit of naughtiness is nothing I can't handle.”

The ease with which John handled Sherlock both comforted and alarmed him. Both more demanding than Sherlock had expected and less, John required none of the trappings of respect and obedience that Sherlock had been determined to deny him, but instead somehow reached into Sherlock's inner workings to make compliance inevitable. He was refashioning Sherlock from the inside out, and with frightening efficiency.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, torn between rising to the challenge and seeking reassurances that he would fail.

“Sherlock, on the whole, you are an amazing person, truly incredible, but your naughtiness is just, well, ordinary.”

Sherlock drew back, stunned, then saw the glimmer of mischief in John's eyes. Pulling himself straight, he looked down his nose at John. “Everything about me is extraordinary!”

Humming his disbelief, John reached over to pull Sherlock back to him by the elbow. “I'm afraid that's not true. Your elbow, for instance, is quite ordinary.”

“My elbow is exceptionally sharp,” Sherlock retorted, demonstrating with a quick jab to John's ribs.

With a short chuckle at the half-hearted attempt, John caught Sherlock's elbow handily before it could make contact and tucked Sherlock into his chest. They lay back to front with John's arms loosely resting on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock settled in.

“Your love of chips,” John teased into his ear, “is exceedingly ordinary. Dull. Pedestrian. Boring.”

“You ate them, too!” Sherlock reminded him.

“Ah, true, but I am not the great and enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock turned over so that they were face to face and he could see the unmasked affection in John's eyes. “Neither am I. I'm just normal Sherlock.”

“That you are.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the end. I just wanted to post it, so I may edit it it some more later. It's not as cute as the last, and it's a little angsty, so if you just want to read the fun cute stuff, you can pretend that the last chapter was the end.

John had a go at tidying the rest of the flat as Sherlock dozed off the last of his illness. The man's sleep deficit was likely measured in years, not hours, but John attempted to make as much of a dent as he could when Sherlock would allow it.

His text alert sounded, and he glanced at the mobile screen. Lestrade. John read the text as he walked back to Sherlock's room. Sherlock rarely thought to charge his mobile while he was little, and sure enough it lay dead on the floor beside his bed.

“Wake up, love. Lestrade's been texting you. There's a case.”

Sherlock came to at once, and John immediately regretted his words. Clearly torn between two conflicting headspaces, Sherlock struggled to sit up until John sat at the edge of the mattress and pulled him in for a hug. He was warm and pliant in John's arms as he nuzzled into the embrace.

“The case,” he said weakly.

“We don't have to leave right away. You can stay little for a while longer.” Sherlock nodded but straightened up, blinking the last of the sleep from his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He looked better, too, with a bit of colour back in his face, and the dark circles under his eyes faded somewhat. He could probably do with more rest, but John doubted Sherlock would be amenable to staying in bed when he could be jumping from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit of murderers.

“You can always rest a bit longer. I could go in without you if you're still not fully recovered.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John, even at minimal capacity I'll be more use to them than you at your best.”

He'd recovered enough to be a smartarse, then. Throwing Sherlock a half-hearted reproachful glance, John stood back up. “I'll text Lestrade,” he said, and with a playful smirk began narrating a message he was most definitely not typing into his phone. “Sherlock is operating on the emotional level of an eight year old, but he's willing to come take a look.”

“I know you didn't write that, John!” Sherlock huffed, indignant despite his disbelief. “I can see what you're typing by the movement of your thumbs.”

“No you can't,” John shot back automatically, then paused to read Sherlock's face. “Can you?”

Sherlock stared back, impassive and imperious, the very image of smug omniscience.

“You can't,” John pronounced, certain of it even as he turned toward to the wall, shielding his phone and thumbs alike from Sherlock's view.

“You'd be amazed what I can deduce from the set of the back of your shoulders, John.”

“Then maybe I should have you face the wall instead,” John suggested, and Sherlock laughed. John had never done anything of the sort, finding it difficult enough to leave Sherlock alone on the staircase. He hid it well, however, if Sherlock's florid descriptions of his cruelty and heartlessness were anything to go by. He turned back to find Sherlock grinning at him.

“I want to stay little when I go on the case with you.”

“Well, you can't,” he said, then looked down at his phone to divert the potential argument. “Ah, Lestrade says that eight years old is a marked improvement on your normal behaviour, and he requests your presence immediately.”

“Stop!” Sherlock jumped up, laughing, and snatched the phone from John's hands. “I want to see what you actually wrote.”

John allowed him to look through the messages, then took the phone back before he started looking where he shouldn't. “Are you ready to be big again?”

“No.”

John was hesitant, too. It took Sherlock time to relax into his role, to let go and let John take over. It was also often the only time he could convince Sherlock to talk to him honestly about their relationship, and John was torn between taking advantage of that and waiting until they could have a more adult conversation. “We can play again once you solve the case.”

“But I miss you when I'm big,” Sherlock said, suddenly still and pensive. “I miss how you love me more when I'm little.”

“That's not true, love,” John assured him. “I love all the parts of you, big and little. You just let me show you more when you're like this.”

“You don't try. You hug me and kiss me when I'm little, but not when I'm big.” His voice was flat, and his expression impassive, like the stone face of a mountain on the verge of crumbling down. “You kiss Eve.”

The floor tilted under John's feet, and he fought to right himself. “Sherlock, Eve is my girlfriend. It's normal for people to kiss their girlfriends. It doesn't mean I love you any less.”

“You're going to marry her and move away. No one will look after me.”

“Sherlock, no matter what happens, I will always be your friend and I will always love you.”

Silence stretched between them, and for a moment John thought that it had worked, that he'd successfully allayed Sherlock's fears. Then, Sherlock asked, “If you get married, do you promise that I can still live with you?”

He wanted to promise. He wanted to tell Sherlock everything he wanted to hear. He'd been dating Eve for less than a month, and it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of marriage. “Sherlock...” he started, reaching to frame Sherlock's face in his hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes and grit his teeth. “Get out.”

“No, love. I think we should talk about this.”

“Get out of my room!” Sherlock snapped, throwing John's hands off him and looking straight through him.

“Sherlock, please-”

“Safeword! Safeword! Safeword!” he chanted furiously. “Get out of my room!”

John retreated to the kitchen, where he sat at the table with his hands in his head, trying to puzzle out how everything had turned on its head so quickly.

Minutes later, when Sherlock finally emerged from his room, John still hadn't reached any conclusions, though Sherlock had pulled himself together impeccably, calm and collected as he breezed past John into the lounge to get his coat and scarf.

“If you're not coming, I'll need your phone,” Sherlock informed him.

John rose from his chair and began to collect his own things. “I'm coming.”

* * *

They sat in the cab, Sherlock studiously ignoring him, until John couldn't take it any longer.

“We have to talk about this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to face him, all public school poise and diction. “I'm aware that my behaviour was erratic today, but as you said, you were quite able to handle it. There's really nothing to discuss.”

“You bloody well know what I'm talking about! You were upset enough to safeword, and we need to discuss it.”

“It's quite normal for children to be upset by a caregiver's romantic relationships.”

“And for children to fear that their caregiver will abandon them?”

With the slight darting of his eyes that accompanied an observation and deduction, Sherlock glanced John over. “In this particular case, that fear does not appear to be misplaced.”

The pieces of the puzzle started to fit together inside John's mind. “Sherlock, how much of what you say when you're in that headspace is actually play, and how much is you telling me what you're not willing to when you're an adult?”

“Don't be ridiculous, John. Neither of us has gone beyond what we agreed to in the contract, so-”

“Damn the contract!” John snapped, and he saw a brief flash of fear in Sherlock's eyes, a tiny glimpse of his boy before Sherlock closed himself off again. He took a breath to compose himself, observing the driver's studious indifference from the corner of his eye. “Sherlock, the contract is there to help us better communicate our needs and limits, not to provide you with an excuse to cut off all other avenues of communication.” When Sherlock didn't respond, he continued. “It's become very clear that this is something more than you indicated when we negotiated that contract, and I need you to talk to me about it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. His voice was steady, but John could see the slight tremor in his fingers as he fought to control himself. “Ask whatever you like, but I'll not postpone the case for this.”

John hesitated, feeling the discussion become an interrogation, but decided to jump right in when he realized it was the best he could hope for under the circumstances. “Would you like me to be more affectionate toward you as an adult?”

The pause was long enough that John started to doubt whether Sherlock would answer. Finally, Sherlock turned to the window and said, “Yes.”

“All right. Do you want to have a romantic relationship with me?”

“No.”

The flat denial relieved him. He continued in their lopsided conversation. “Do you want me to have a relationship with someone else?”

“No.”

“So, to be clear, you'd prefer that I not be in any romantic relationship at all.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock, that's not reasonable! You can't ask to dictate my love life.”

“I know it's not reasonable.” Sherlock finally faced him, beaten and desperate beneath the thin veneer of his stoicism. “You asked me what I preferred, John. I didn't request it.”

“All right. You're right.” John turned to his own window and watched London slide by. He still wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock was asking for, maybe nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head as the flashing lights of the crime scene came into view. “You're more important to me than Eve.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “For now.”

* * *

The case had been simpler than expected, “blindingly obvious” in Sherlock's words, and he'd stayed only for the requisite insults to Lestrade's team before hurrying back to the flat, no doubt angrier over the impending discussion with John than the waste of his time. He'd gone straight to his bedroom without a word to John, closing the door behind him with an finality that foretold a prolonged isolation.

John knocked on the door.

There was no response, and John knocked again. “Sherlock, I'm coming in.”

Opening the door, John peered in to find Sherlock lying on the bed, fully clothed, his back turned to John. John walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. “I know you're awake, Sherlock.”

“I'm not little right now.” Sherlock turned over to search John's face. “You know I'm not little. There's no need to comfort me.”

John left his hand where it was and stroked his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. “I'm sorry my relationship with Eve upsets you.”

“It doesn't upset me,” Sherlock replied, too quickly for him to have given the statement any thought.

“I'm sorry you don't like it,” he amended, and Sherlock frowned at him.

“There's no need to apologise. You're well within your rights to pursue a relationship with whomever you choose.”

“I am, but I'd like to do it in a way that doesn't compromise my relationship with you.” Sherlock shrugged off his hand, and John sighed. “Can you please age down? I know you're unhappy, but we need to talk about this.”

Sherlock glowered but gave John a curt nod. He closed his eyes and John watched as he fell into the headspace, his face tightening and slacking through the transformation. Finally he propped himself up and opened his eyes to scowl at John. “What?!” he demanded.

John pressed his lips together in disapproval, but otherwise ignored the outburst. “I was hoping to continue our discussion from earlier.”

Sherlock's curls flew across his face as he shook his head violently. “I'm still cross with you. I don't care what you tell me, and I'm not going to sit on the naughty step, so you can just shut it!”

The raw anger was a vast improvement on cold indifference, and John took it in stride. “Okay, love. Can you explain to me why you're so angry?”

Sherlock heaved a few more furious breaths before looking at John and breaking down in sobs. Gathering him up quickly, John held Sherlock close and stroked his back through the worst of it. Sherlock struggled, alternately leaning into him and drawing away as he cried himself out. “Stop it. You tricked me. I don't want-” He pushed John from him and wiped at his face. “Just stop.”

As much as he hated it, John kept his hands to himself as Sherlock regained his composure. “When did I trick you?”

Sherlock twisted the sheets in his hands as he answered. “When we did the contract. I thought I could play and be naughty and you'd try to stop me, and it would be fun. I didn't know you'd be so nice to me. You tricked me.”

“That wasn't a trick, love. I thought you knew I'd be nice to you.” It took all his effort not to take Sherlock into his arms and never let go. “I love you very much.”

“You didn't tell me you were going to love me.” Sherlock's voice held a note of accusation that John didn't quite understand. “I don't want to love you any more.”

The naked fear in Sherlock's eyes was the final piece of the puzzle. John ignored the earlier protests and took Sherlock's face in his hands. “Sherlock, I'm not leaving you. What I get from being with you, I don't get from anyone else. You are the only person who can fill that place in my life.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his face. “But it's not good enough.”

“I have other people in my life, but they can't replace you. My relationship with Eve is different to mine with you. Even if she were little, she wouldn't be you. No one else can be.”

Still wrecked, but relaxing somewhat, Sherlock started to nod as he processed the new information. “What if I were your boyfriend when I was big?”

“You've already told me you don't want that.”

“If I had to, though, I know I could do.”

“Sherlock, no,” he said, running his fingers through the dark curls that were threatening to obscure Sherlock's face. “You're my little boy, and I don't want to hear any more 'boyfriend' talk. You're exactly who I want you to be.”

* * *

John tucked the duvet around a freshly showered and pyjama-clad Sherlock.

“I expect you to stay in bed tonight, love.”

“What if-”

“What if you were clever enough to deduce what's naughty and what's not, hm?” John cut him off with affectionate grin.

Sherlock squinted up at him through the darkness. “I know I was naughty today.”

“A bit, yes,” John agreed, lying down beside him and wrapping him up in a tight cuddle. “But you stayed on the sofa when I asked, you ate all your medicine, not to mention three meals. You did a lot of things to be pleased about.”

Smiling softly at the praise, Sherlock wriggled around to bury his face in John's shoulder. John loosened his hold enough to let Sherlock settle in, then tightened again, until they were snug against each other.

“I'll stay in bed all night if you stay with me,” Sherlock offered.

John kissed the crown of his head. “I'll not bargain with you about following the rules, love.” Sherlock sighed, his warm breath passing easily through the thin fabric of John's tee shirt, and John continued. “But I'll stay here until you fall asleep.”

Sherlock tried his best to make John work to fulfil the promise, fighting to stay awake as John rubbed small circles into his back. He was no match for the lulling effect of John's touch, though, and soon enough John was carefully disentangling himself from Sherlock's sleep-heavy limbs.

He quietly found his way back to his bedroom, finally allowing himself to succumb to the fatigue that he'd been evading for most of the day. Too exhausted to even lift the duvet, he fell asleep on top of it, drifting into a dreamless sleep. He didn't complain when just an hour later, he was awakened by Sherlock's warm body tucking itself insistently beneath his arm.


End file.
